“So, aren’t you going to ask?” She tilts her head to the side like a bird, or like a dog who knows you’re talking to it.
“No.” I would never ask someone to share their secrets. “You can tell me if you want, though.”
She laughs again, then leans over and takes the frayed cuff of my shirt in her hand, running her thumb over the loose blue threads. I don’t get how her touching my shirt could make me feel like she’s really touching me, but it does. I should have worn something that wasn’t messed up from a spin, I should have thought—
“I’m the bad seed,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not, but then she continues. “Okay, not totally. But my mom doesn’t get me. I used to take all these cool pictures of things I guess I wasn’t supposed to. You know, like funerals and stuff. And then I took a photo of my mom with this guy and sent it to my dad.”
I can feel my eyes open so wide, I wonder if my eyeballs are going to fall out.
“Anyhow … ” She moves her hand down to enclose mine. I manage to stop myself from gasping by holding my breath, but something inside me is twisting around like a pinwheel. As much as I want to know what she’s about to say, it’s a struggle to keep myself focused on her words while her hand is so hot on my skin. “I guess things weren’t what they looked like. But basically, I just got sick of being ignored all the time, so I used to do a lot of stupid stuff.”
I want so badly to ask what kind of stupid stuff. I mean, stupid like setting fires, or shoplifting, or stupid like … ? I don’t know. I always try to follow all the rules, try not to get noticed unless it’s on the ice.
“So, I decided that instead of being locked up in Fairlane or being ignored at home, I was going to get out. When I was home for winter break, I took my mom’s debit card. I got enough money out of the bank to buy a train ticket to Boston.”
There’s an ominous crack of thunder from outside that stops her before she continues. I don’t say anything. I don’t want her to stop talking, but I’m in awe. I can’t imagine really leaving and being on my own. I can’t believe she’d seriously try it.
“My aunt lives in Boston. She never had kids and I’ve always been close to her. I thought maybe I’d be better off there.”
“What happened?” I ask, trying to find my voice.
“My aunt was majorly upset with me when I called her from the station. But she calmed down pretty quick once she called my mom and found out that my parents hadn’t even noticed I was gone. They figured I was with my friend Laura or something and never bothered to check. So, when my aunt stopped yelling at my mom, she drove me back to the train and I came home. They pulled me out of school for a couple months to keep an eye on me, which is a major joke because they don’t. I was grounded for forever and had to see a shrink. Things were better for a couple of weeks, but … ” She shrugs. “Business as usual.”
She looks kind of sad as she takes her hand away from me and plays with her necklace. I try to think of something to say to make her feel better, but I don’t know what that would be. And then she asks her own question. “So how come you live with Kevin’s dad?”
My stomach sinks a little. It’s a minute before I can answer her and when I do, my voice quivers. “Do you really not know about me?”
She looks genuinely puzzled. I’m relieved that she really doesn’t know, that she isn’t just screwing with me. The problem is, I don’t know if I want her to know. The only options I have are to spill it all or lie, and I’m a horrible liar.
I twist the leather band on my wrist and close my eyes, hoping she’ll still be my friend afterward. As I try to figure out where to start, I realize I’ve never had to tell anyone. Not one single person. Everyone knew about That Day. The teachers and counselors all knew what happened, from the cops. The kids at school all knew, from their parents or older brothers and sisters or the Internet.
Maybe now there are some kids at school who don’t know. Maybe some think I was born this way, or that I’m just a kid who’s smart in class and good at hockey and screwed up in every other way imaginable for no good reason.
But not once, in five years, have I met someone who I was sure didn’t know my past. Not once have I met someone who I almost wanted to tell.
I open my eyes and focus on a spot just behind her, over her shoulder. I start slowly. “Our mom is dead,” I say.
It’s the tip of the iceberg. It answers her question. Maybe she won’t even want to know more.
Her face crunches up in the way that people’s do when they find out you’re a kid with a dead parent. Her mouth forms an O and then she asks, “What about your dad?”
I feel my lungs seize up, suddenly empty of air. “He’s … ”
I have no idea what to say. I blink my eyes, trying not to spin off. I don’t want to talk about him. I just need to get a word out so that the conversation goes somewhere else, but I can’t.
I must spin a little, though, because she looks at me like she’s been waiting a while. She puts her hand on my arm and says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”
Somehow, her saying that makes me want to tell her. I look into her dark, patient eyes and feel my body remembering how to breathe. I twist the band again. It forms a figure eight and I let it snap back hard against my skin. I lie down and look at the top of the tent, at the way that it buckles slightly when the water hits it.
“I don’t think my parents liked each other much,” I start. “And my dad … I don’t think he liked anybody. My mom was kind of sick sometimes, and he was really mean to her.” I don’t talk about what he used to do to Kevin, and I’m not really sure that anything I’m saying makes any sense to her, but I just keep going because I’m afraid if I stop, I won’t be able to start again.
I close my eyes and tell her about the kids. I tell her about That Day.
I don’t tell her about The Night Before, because even though Kevin isn’t upset, I don’t really believe anyone else would get it.
She doesn’t say a word. Not even when I pause and get stuck. She just waits. Not in a bad, pressing way. Just like she’s willing to wait for however long I need her to.
And when I’m done, I feel a little lighter. I don’t feel like I’m spinning off anywhere, I feel good. Almost … normal.
When I open my eyes, instead of talking about it, instead of asking more questions, she lies back down, reaching over and brushing my bangs out of my eyes. “I like your hair,” she says. “It’s really soft.”
She leaves her cool fingers on my forehead. Without thinking, I roll my head so that more of her hand is on me. It’s like she’s a magnet or something. I’m not sure I can move, or that I want to. I just want her to keep her hand there so badly that I’d cry if I didn’t mind her knowing how messed up I am.
She moves her arm down and puts it around my waist, which is even nicer. Then she puts her head on my shoulder. Its weight is a comfortable pressure pinning me here. I can feel her breath on the side of my neck. “I’m sorry, Gordie. I didn’t know.”
I don’t know what to do with my hands. She’s lying against my left arm and I’m afraid to move it because I don’t want to hit her breast or anything. My right thumb is twitching like crazy and I just try to take long, deep breaths, but my heart is racing like I’m in goal and I’ve got pucks coming at me from all directions.
I feel a little guilty for not telling her about the spins, or about what’s going on now with my father. It all threatens to spill out of me in one compulsive burst, but I bite the inside of my cheek and try to focus on her weight on me. I’m not keeping anything from her, I tell myself; I just don’t want to talk about it now.
I don’t know how to respond to her comment, either. I mean, I can say, “It’s okay,” but that’s a blatant lie. I could say nothing, but that’s a lie in its own way too. So instead of talking, I reach my hand up and take hers. Her skin is so sof
t. Touching her feels so good I’m sure it’s something I’m going to get in trouble for.
“I’m sorry for before. For whining about my stupid problems with my parents,” she says.
“Why?” I ask. Then it hits me. “No, it’s fine. I just … ”
“You must think I’m a total spoiled brat.”
“No way.” I mean it. I know that what happened to me isn’t normal. Most parents don’t try to kill their kids.
We stay like that for a while before she asks if I want to go for a walk.
I listen to the rain, which is falling even heavier now. “You know it’s rainy, right?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I love the rain.”
I love the rain too, when I’m inside and watching it fall or listening to it. I’m not much for being out in it. I’ve had enough wet to last a lifetime.
But I let her pull me up and lead me outside.
Water is pooling in the dirt, reflecting the dusky campground light. Drops are falling into Sarah’s straight dark hair and getting stuck there like tiny crystal balls.
She giggles as she leads us away from Luke and Jessie’s tent, toward a canopy of trees. We walk for a few minutes and I try to ignore how wet I’m getting. I think of sunny days, and warm blankets, and her hand in mine.
We reach a path and have to walk single file. Ahead of me, Sarah’s too-light-for-March jacket is heavy with rain. I try not to stare at her shape, but have to look away and think about hockey, and school, and Kevin’s cooking. Anything other than how the wet fabric is clinging to her and how badly I want to be where it is.
She leads us to a huge willow tree. Its branches are knit together like a giant umbrella that’s keeping the rain out.
“Wow.” I stare up through the branches and try to wipe my wet face with my equally wet sleeve.
“I know, right?” Her face is tilted up, looking at the top of the tree and she’s smiling like it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
I’m glad it’s a warmish night, but I’m shivering. I don’t know if it’s from the water or her. I try to stop myself, but she notices and rubs my wet arms with her hands.
“You’re shaking. We should have grabbed towels.”
I’m trembling so hard I don’t know if I can stop, but I’m not sure I really care.
“We should go back before you freeze.” She starts to take my hand again, but I stop her.
“No, Sarah, wait.” I plant my feet and stand my ground, clenching my teeth to stop them from chattering. “I don’t want to go back.”
She moves so close to me I can feel the heat coming off her body. One side of her mouth lifts in a smile. It’s the kind of smile I’ve seen on other girls before. I’ve seen Jessie look at Luke with a smile like that.
“So what do you want?” she teases.
What do I want? I want to wrap myself up in her arms until I stop shaking. I want to stay in this moment and not spin off somewhere. I want to say something clever like they’d say in a movie, but I’m too aware that I’m just an inexperienced screwed-up kid standing here, dripping with rain and shaking under an old willow tree. I look away, hoping she doesn’t see how embarrassed I am.
“Don’t be scared,” she says, so quietly I’m not really sure she’s said it out loud.
I think about protesting and telling tell her I’m not scared, but that’s a lie. I’m terrified. But it’s a different kind of fear from seeing my father or when I think of Kevin leaving. I’m scared because I don’t know what I’m doing, or even what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what she wants or how I’d give it to her even if I did know. I don’t know how to flirt back and be confident and casual.
I force myself to let go of her hand and walk over to the trunk of the tree and then to the other side of it, trying to get just a minute’s worth of space. I lean back and feel my chest tighten. I don’t want to lose it here. Not in front of her. Not now.
I sink down onto my heels and bend my head forward, trying to slow my breathing while I snap that damned band so hard I’m sure I’m going to have a welt.
And then I feel her hand on my head and everything in me stops. She leans down so that she’s next to me, our shoes lined up next to each other.
“It’s okay, Gordie. I’m just playing.”
“It isn’t … ” I manage to squeak out before her hand works its way through my hair. It feels so good it makes me dizzy. I close my eyes and know that if I let go, even a little, I’ll lose myself to the rhythm of her fingers.
“Then what is it?” she asks. Her voice sounds really far away, like a part of me has already floated off and landed somewhere else.
I don’t know the right words to try to explain what I’m feeling; this weird mix of fear and longing. I can’t imagine a scenario where she’d want anything to do with me, much less … I swallow all the words I don’t know how to say and watch the rain hitting the trees and the ground, and everything that isn’t us here under this safe and protected tree.
Sarah smiles and stands, pulling me up with her. Before I know it, she’s in front of me, leaning in, and her lips are pressing against mine. Everything seems to slow down like it does during a spin. I don’t know how long we kiss for. Only that it could never last long enough.
“There. That wasn’t so scary, was it?” she asks.
I don’t say it, but right now, it’s hard to believe that anything could ever scare me again.
Sixteen
We’re both quiet as we head back to the tent, but it’s a good kind of quiet. A comfortable kind of quiet.
It’s still raining, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t feel cold and I don’t feel wet; all I feel is her hand in mine. It’s like the only part of me that has any feeling is the part that’s touching her.
When we’re back in the tent, she reaches over to turn on the space heater again and gestures at my pack. “I hope you have something warm and dry in there.”
Do I? There must be other clothes in there, but I don’t know how I’d get into them with her right there. I change clothes in front of guys in the locker room all the time, but this is different. So different.
Still, I unzip the pack and pull out a pair of sweats and a hoodie. I congratulate myself on achieving this little bit of practicality, but it’s equally possible that Kevin threw them in.
Rather than wrestle with the logistics of getting out of clothes and into others, I start to put the hoodie over my damp shirt.
“Are you trying to give yourself pneumonia? Take your wet clothes off and change.”
Sarah is standing directly in front of me, so that’s not going to happen. “You don’t actually get sick from wearing wet clothes, you know,” I say through my chattering teeth, stalling for time.
She laughs and then says, “Well, even if it doesn’t make you sick, it won’t make you comfortable. But if you’re going to insist on being shy, I’ll turn my back and change over here.”
I watch as she pulls a set of hot-pink flannel pajamas with little Scottie dogs out of her bag. I’ve never seen her wear anything with so much color, and it makes me smile.
When she turns her back to me, her bird necklace swings around and catches my eyes, not letting go. I’m still staring at it as I slowly pull my shirt off. The fabric sticks to my skin like my eyes are stuck on her. Like a magician, she wraps a huge towel around herself and then I see her shirt drop, followed by her jeans and a bra.
Still somehow wrapped in the towel, she slides into the dry flannel.
I haven’t moved. I’m still standing there, shirtless, when she turns back around. For a minute I’m embarrassed that she caught me watching her and I expect her to get mad, but she doesn’t. Instead she picks up the other towel and starts drying my chest off. It’s a crazy feeling, almost like flying. I stay there like an idiot, shivering and knowing for sure it isn’t from the cold this
time.
When she looks down at my wet jeans, it takes every single bit of control I have to force my hand up to take the towel from her and form the words, “I got it.”
She laughs and turns away again, pretending to sort through her backpack. “Well, if you’re sure.”
I scramble out of my jeans and into my sweats. My whole body feels like it’s about to explode. I go over to the space heater and sit down, holding my shaking hands up to the hot air.
“What do you think Luke and Jessie are doing?” she asks as she sits next to me.
I look at her and raise an eyebrow. I have a good idea of what they’re doing, but I’m not going to talk about it. I can’t even think about it without turning red, which I’m sure I’m already doing. I just focus on rubbing my hands together.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says.
I stop rubbing and drop my hands to my lap and look at her. “Me too,” I say, but I know there’s no way I can capture what I’m feeling in words. “I wish we could stay up all night.” In my head, another list forms, a list of other things I wish but don’t have the courage to say, much less do.
“We could try.”
“I want to,” I say. I think about spending all night next to her. Talking or not. Kissing like we did under the tree. But I’m so tired and more than a little freaked out about what will happen in the dark hours that stretch ahead. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” I add.
She takes my hand and links my fingers with hers. It does a better job of warming me than the heater.
“Why?” she asks.
I know I could say I’m worried about school or something, but I don’t want to lie to her and I rarely worry about school. I don’t want to tell her the truth either, but I give her a little of it. “I have … kind of nightmares … about … ”
I don’t finish, and I see in her eyes that I don’t have to. “I know it’s stupid,” I add. “I just wanted to warn you.” I’m pretty sure I’ve said too much and she’s going to decide that I’m some stupid broken kid who isn’t worth her time.
These Gentle Wounds Page 11
